


Sunlit Roses

by CowMow



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:11:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CowMow/pseuds/CowMow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had died. She has died, and Sherlock never had the chance to explain to her how he died. He brings roses, bute he shouldn't have done that. Mummy never liked roses, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunlit Roses

**Sunlit Roses.** A Sherlock fan fiction by CowMow.

Sherlock scoffs silently at the blue sky. It should be raining, thundering, snowing, anything but this ridiculously beautiful weather. The happy sun shines too brightly, pouring her caressing warmth over the graveled paths, over the few flowers Sherlock can see. Stupid sun. 

She didn’t even like sun. She preferred the coolness of the rain, the purification of thunder, the blue-y intensity of snow. Anything but heat. She couldn’t bear heat well.

His black dress shoes dig deep into the thick layer of gravel as he strides toward the gate which he opens in a fluid motion, creating an earsplitting screech. 

It is too hot to wear his long black coat, but he doesn’t consider taking it off for a second. She always liked this coat on him; it was her gift for his 30th birthday after all. Sherlock had argued it was too expensive and really unnecessary because he already had a coat, and a good one at that, but she had just squeezed his shoulder. “You deserve it, Sherlock. You need a good coat, a warm coat, with all that running around on rooftops in any kind of weather. I don’t want you to fall ill. Besides, it looks very well on you, handsome man!”

And now, roughly seven years later, Sherlock had to admit the coat certainly did the protecting job well, his mother would have been proud. It had even become his trademark now, John had often remarked with a grin.

He scowls as the cool wrought iron of the small fence leaves his left hand. He quickly rubs his hand down his woolly coat to get rid of the burning feeling left in his hand palm while he continues to walk down the white-graveled path. 

Why did they choose white gravel? Dull grey or solemn black would have been much, much better. The reflected sunlight hurts his eyes and his head, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, hopelessly trying to stop it from burning the images in his mind.

How long since he had been here? Two years, it can’t have been more than two years ago. He sighs and resists the urge to wipe the sweat beads from his brow. His curls, too long since they had seen scissors, stick to his temples and neck, causing unwanted friction with the turned-up collar of his beloved coat.

His shoulder itches. The wounds he had received there are still healing. It was his left shoulder, thank goodness. He can still write and do everything he needs and wants to.   
The sun continues pouring her warm smiles over the solitary man between the cold stones and panting trees. 

She always got out of the house when it had rained, dancing in the wet grass, preferably barefoot, twirling with him or Mycroft, sometimes both, in her strong arms. He smiles despite himself. He would join sometimes too, when he was in a good mood. The more Sherlock could remember, the angrier he became, the less he danced with her. The less he wanted to remember.

He stops stock-still, the pathetic bouquet of red roses hang limply down from his tight grip. She didn’t even like roses, but it seemed the right thing to bring something anyway. John would be pleased to know he didn’t forget to do this. Red roses stood for love, the woman in the store told him. Of course he knew that, he wasn’t dim, he just wonders if it was the right bouquet to buy.

No, she never liked roses. “Never a rose without thorns,” she always said, “and one should always try avoiding thorns.”

Cruel fate allowed her to marry to a man who had all the nastiest of thorns but missed the sweetness of the velvety flower. Crude sense of humour, fate has.

His dulled, distant eyes glide over the headstone, and his tongue moisturises his lips when he reads what is engraved in the red marble. 

He shouldn’t have brought the roses. She despised roses, especially in the end. The unnaturally sweet smell that always enveloped their white-painted veranda often made her feel sick. Sherlock contemplates throwing them away, but then he has nothing to place on the grave. He looks down and his lips twitch into a vague smile when his eyes meet a small plant. A cactus. How Mycroft loved to be dramatic.

“I see you came as soon as possible,” he suddenly hears a voice behind him. He doesn’t turn nor answer.

“She often expressed the wish to see you again, brother dear. The question remains whether she was just delirious or knew. I couldn’t lay my finger on it.”

“You gave her the cactus.”

“It stood on her bedside table all the time since. It seemed proper that she would have it with her here too. How’s the shoulder?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, but instead bends over to carefully place the roses beside the already dying cactus.

“You gave her roses?” Mycroft snorts.

“Obviously.”

Mycroft tuts, shaking his head. “She hated those.”

“Yes, but only after… You know.”

Mycroft stirs beside him, probably in doubt about placing his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder or not.

“No need to get emotional now, Mycroft,” Sherlock decides for him, still not facing away from the bright red stone in front of him. “She never was.”

Mycroft relaxes a bit, and lifts his umbrella. “She really loved you, in the end, if that’s any comfort.”

“Did you come up with the text?”

“She left a diary.”

Sherlock grins, it feels fake and forced. “She wrote a diary.” It wasn’t exactly a question, more like a distant remark.

Mycroft nodded slowly. “She still knows how to surprise us.”

“Knew.”

“Pardon me?”

“She always knew how to surprise us. You spoke about her as if she is still alive.”

“I meant that, even across the borders of death, she still manages to surprise us.”

Sherlock smirks sadly. “What was wrong with her?”

Mycroft frowns and he turns to face his younger brother. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock sighs, exasperated, tired, deadly tired. “She died, Myc, what was wrong with her?”

“Ah. Cancer. Far stadium, nothing would have helped.”

Sherlock grimaces at Mycroft’s ease of handling a sensitive matter such as this. He knows it shouldn’t hurt or surprise him, but it does.

“What?” Mycroft’s always-present frown deepens.

“If it was murder, we could revenge her. It’s a bit hard to revenge cancer,” Sherlock snaps rudely, his eyes blazing ice-cold fire at the hot-red stone.

“There are ways,” Mycroft answers, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. Anything but looking into those eyes.

“Such as?” Sherlock’s grey, suddenly hope-filled eyes turn on his brother, finally. He is secretly shocked by the way his brother looks. His clothes are too big, his cheeks and eyes are hollow, the hand gripping the umbrella tightly is bony.

“Find a cure. You could do it.” Mycroft averts his eyes from the scrutinising eyes of his brother.

“You look dreadful,” Sherlock states, gentle, soft.

Mycroft shrugs. 

“Tell me how it was, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, begs, demands.

Mycroft lifts his eyes from his shoes and shakes his head. “I think I’d better not, Sherlock.”

Sherlock lowers his gaze and stares at their feet. “She loved me?” 

It pains Mycroft to hear how small that voice sounds, the deep baritone reduced to the high-pitch of a child on the verge of crying  
.  
He smiles softly as he places his hand on Sherlock’s right shoulder. “Mothers always love the son that’s dead the best. It’s natural.” It doesn’t sound venomous or jealous; it is just the plain truth. 

Sherlock looks up again. “Did she say it to you too?”

 

Mycroft throws his brother the smile that hides all feeling. “You know mummy.”  
“Knew.”

“Pardon me?”

“You again spoke about her as if she is still alive.” His little brother’s voice sounds scolding. He rightfully does so.

Mycroft shrugs, sadly. “I do, don’t I? It’s just… It is just strange.” His word choice seems oddly off, but Sherlock understands.

“She was always there, wasn’t she?”

 

“In the past weeks, she talked more than I ever thought she could. About him, about flowers and about us. About you, actually.”

“Flowers?” Sherlock blinks. “She talked about flowers?”

“Apparently she loved flowers. Chrysanthemums, mostly.”

“I should have bought her a bouquet more often.”

Mycroft scoffs. “Don’t get sentimental, Sherlock.”

Both men stare at the bright red marble for a few silent minutes. 

“What did she say about me?” Sherlock looks at his brother’s profile from the side.

Mycroft tightens his grip on the umbrella. “She… she loved you. She just kept saying that. She wanted to have been there for you when you felt alone, when you thought the world was against you. You know,” Mycroft suddenly smiles, “I found a can of spray-paint under her coat one day.”

Sherlock frowns. “Spray paint?”

“Yellow. Apparently she went out to graffiti ‘I believe in Sherlock’ on the walls of Scotland Yard. I was able to follow her on CCTV.”

Sherlock chuckles joyfully. “Did she really?” 

“It was hardly decipherable, of course,” Mycroft adds; his thoughts are far away.

“Obviously,” Sherlock agrees, nodding to emphasise his feelings.

The two brothers share another silence. It is comfortable, just this once, and both feel calmly fine with that. 

“I…” Sherlock begins, but Mycroft lifts his hand to stop him from talking. 

“Don’t.”

Sherlock’s bright eyes darken. “What?”

“Don’t say you feel guilty. You did what you had to do. It had to be done, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nods curtly, his mop of curls bounces gently up and down. “Still, you look horrible. What happened?”

“Sebastian Moran, he was somewhat… unwilling to cooperate,” Mycroft says tersely.

“You got him to talk, I hope. What did he say?”

Mycroft’s eyes soften as he locks looks with his brother. “Talking about Moran over our mother’s grave… Bit not good, brother dear. We will discuss that matter another time.”

“Fine.” Sherlock folds his arms across his chest and stares at the words. “Why red?”

Mycroft clears his throat. “Apparently, she liked red.”

Sherlock nods again. It makes perfect sense after all. He takes a step forward until his cold fingers brush the surprisingly warm headstone. “Why did she choose this text?” he softly murmurs to himself.  
Mycroft takes off his own coat with measured movements. “She found the poem on the internet one day.”

“It’s out of character. I expected something short, to the point. Factual. Her name, dates… not… this.”

“She said she wanted this. I saw no pointing in arguing about that. I argued with her too often,” Mycroft sighs. “She blamed me, you know. Everyone who loves you seems to have that tendency.”

“That won’t be many,” Sherlock mocks him.

“Mrs. Hudson, John, Mummy, Gre– DI Lestrade too. All said I had all this power, running the government, playing CIA… I could have easily prevented the newspapers from going to print. I could have Kitty get fired. I could have revealed Moriarty’s true identity. Needless to say I could. Should, in fact.”

Sherlock turns around to face his brother and sees. He sees the pale cheeks, the hollow eyes, the bags under it. That has nothing to do with Moran. His jaw clenches when he turns his back to his brother.

He should say he was sorry for all the mess Mycroft has been through, but he just can’t. “It was kind of your fault. In the first place, I mean.”

He hears the sigh coming from behind him. “I know, Sherlock, I told you I am so-”

“Don’t. I know.” He throws his brother a faint smile. “It doesn’t matter, Mycroft. Mummy is dead.”

Mycroft nods silently. 

Sherlock swallows hard and bows his head. His dark curls, too long, fall over his face, covering his eyes, shielding them from the sun and piercing glances. “I would appreciate some time alone, with her,” he says, softly.

He waits until the steps and the soft ticks of the umbrella have dimmed in the distance, and then steps back from the gravestone to face it properly.  
“I think I should say I am sorry, but I appear to have said that more often already. I don’t want to, because what I did somehow doesn’t feel wrong. I am sorry for that, though. I am not sorry for faking my own death, leaving you alone without knowing, just with Mycroft. I think you resent me for that the most.” Sherlock grins, prodding the cactus with the tip of his shining shoe. “But what I did, it kept you safe. You, and John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Molly and DI Lestrade. Have you ever met Lestrade? No, I don’t think you did. You would have liked him, mummy. He is not half as stupid as the rest, and you know that that’s quite an honour, coming from me.” Sherlock licks his lips. “But I am sorry for not returning in time to be with you when you, erm, passed away. I know Myc was there, and I know you thought I was dead anyway, but I am sorry. Also, you were too harsh on Mycroft, mum. He helped me really well; I don’t think I would have succeeded without him.” Sherlock chuckles softly. “I never thought I would ever say that.” Suddenly, Sherlock does no longer know what to say. 

He clenches and unclenches his fists and wiggles his toes in his shoes.

Soft footsteps behind him startle him out of his reverie. He recognizes the sound pattern, but he hasn’t heard those for over two years.

He turns around swiftly, stumbles over his own feet and is met with two steady arms who anchor him, keeping him upright.

“Ho, there. Steady, mate!” 

Sherlock blinks. That voice… He blinks again and stares straight into a pair of the bluest eyes mankind has ever seen. “Jo-John?”

John nods, a bright smile forming around his mouth. “Good gracious… You really are alive! I thought Mycroft was delirious when he told me.” John lets go of Sherlock’s arms, still staring at his friend. “You’re dizzy, aren’t you?” 

_Ah, the Doctor kicks in._ Sherlock bobs his head up and down in confirmation, silently. 

Suddenly John’s smile disappears. “I am sorry about your mother’s death. Are you okay?”

The tall man licks his lips and shrugs. “I don’t really know…” he answers pensively. 

His friend squeezes his shoulder comfortingly. “That’s alright.”

Sherlock swallows with difficulty. A strange lump forms in his throat and he can’t seem to get rid of it. The last time he felt like this was… was two years ago. His breathing speeds up and his hands begin to tremble uncontrollably.

As if John can sense this, he wraps his arms around Sherlock’s lean frame and pulls him close. Sherlock buries his face in John’s warm jumper and sobs through the tremors that ripple through his body. His arms fold around John’s chest like they belong there, and that’s how Mycroft finds them five minutes later. He stands away a bit, but remains within hearing distance. Just in case, you know.

When Sherlock pulls away, his eyes and nose are puffy and red, but his heart is a stone lighter. 

“Are you okay now?” John asks, placing his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, looking straight into the grey eyes.

Sherlock nods curtly. “I’m better, thank you.”

“Good,” John smiles. “Now, care to explain to me why this poem is on your mother’s grave?” he asks to divert Sherlock’s thoughts a bit.

Sherlock smiles as he turns to face the red headstone. “I don’t know, really. According to Mycroft, she read it on the internet somewhere.”

“It’s beautiful,” John says. 

“Why are you here, John?” Sherlock suddenly asks. 

“Mycroft told me you were going to be here, and I think he wanted me to support you through this.”

Sherlock sniffs loudly. “I wanted to tell you myself.”

“What?” John laughs. “Make me choke on my tea because of your dramatic entrance? I think I have had enough drama in the past two years to last a lifetime.”

Sherlock chuckles softly too. “I imagined that look of surprise on your face. It kept me going these years.”

“Mycroft told me what was going on. He explained everything. It’s okay, Sherlock.” He smiles at his friend. “Do you want some time alone, just to, you know, say goodbye? I’ll just be waiting outside the fence.”

The detective nods and watches his friend leave the graveyard. He clears his throat and finally reads the text on the red marble out loud. “”Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep.” It’s meant to be comforting, isn’t it, mummy? Knowing you will watch over me, like you always did? Well, I don’t know if it is any comfort to you, but I have found John. He was just here, you see, when I needed him most. Thank you, for everything, mum. I- I love you too.” He turns briskly and leaves the now shadowy garden. The sun hides behind the grey clouds, a cool wind rushes between the trees, making the leaves shiver.

Mycroft steps forward when Sherlock walks toward John. He purses his lips and stares at the golden words engraved in the red headstone. He sighs and leans heavily on his umbrella. 

After several minutes, he nods briskly and turns to leave too. But before he leaves entirely, he turns around again. “If I will be damned for telling him a lie, then so be it,” he snaps, and then leaves.

And it is true, because Mycroft will do anything for his brother. He did everything for his brother. He kept an eye on his brother’s best friend. He kept in touch with his brother, helped him with anything he might need. 

He kept the truth hidden, because the truth will only damage the feeling and caring man in the dark coat even more. Sherlock didn’t have to know that his mother was murdered by Sebastian Moran. Sherlock didn’t have to know about the letter Moran left with the body. Sherlock didn’t have to know that Mycroft couldn’t protect her better. Sherlock didn’t have to know about the nights spent in pursuit of his mother’s killer.

Sherlock has done enough. Sherlock deserves peace, the petty crimes, the ordinary murders. Sherlock deserves a cup of tea with his best friend, in the safety of his own flat.

Mycroft is the iceman. The man who doesn’t care about lying or killing. The man who doesn’t need a warm, cosy house or funny, loyal friends or a passionate lover. Not any more. Because his brother needs him.

He watches his brother get into a cab, followed by John Watson, MD. He smiles and fishes his phone out of his pocket. It is time to rule the world. Over and over again.   
He casts one more look at the now empty graveyard. One sunbeam peeks through the layers of clouds, softly kneeling at a grave with a dead cactus, a bouquet of sunlit roses and a red marble headstone. 

“Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep.” 

Sherlock is going home, he is safe. He is sad now, but one day he will be happy again. And one day, Mycroft will be content with what he did.  
For love.

_And on his head be it._

**The End.**


End file.
